


Gravity suspended (1/2)

by In_Arcadia_IO



Series: Gravity suspended [1]
Category: LOTR RPS AU
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Arcadia_IO/pseuds/In_Arcadia_IO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine neither Viggo nor Orlando were cast in the LotR trilogy. Viggo is working as a writer and photographer instead, seeking inspiration in the Moroccan desert. And what about Orlando? Well, find out for yourselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravity suspended (1/2)

The days filtered into nights like the sand into his clothes. And there was always the sky. The sky was endless. Just like the desert.

Often he'd just sit there and stare at the sand, at the myriad curves and lines, designs without meaning. Just like his life.

And whenever he tried to capture words to describe what he felt, everything fell apart. He stared at the empty pages, at the empty screen where the words seemed to slowly crawl away like tiny black ants disappearing into the sand.

Lying on his bed, he stared at the tent's white sky above him, a hazy, opaque white, gleaming away in the midday heat. His mind was just as white. Sometimes shades of muted grey rushed over the surface - clouds, birds, the overhanging branches of a palm tree, he couldn´t say. Sometimes the tent's sidewalls fluttered up, stirred by a light, unexpected breeze. It was so very quiet here.

While the sun was up, the heat seemed to slow all movement and his thinking. When he held up his fingers and looked at them long enough, the outlines of his hands seemed to dissolve into the glaring light.

The nights were equally surreal, but they were cold, so he wrapped himself up in some moth-eaten quilts and went outside, walked up to one of those sand dunes and sat down. He spent hours just watching the sky, watching it colour and pale at sundown, watching the first stars coming up, an incandescent sign language he'd never figure out.

The sky seemed so close. He wondered how it would be if gravity were suddenly suspended. What if it actually happened? Without any warning, just like that. He lay on the sand with outstretched arms and imagined himself tumbling past the glittering constellations, head first into the endlessness of the sky.

The mere idea made him shiver.

Or was it a fever he had caught from staying in the heat too long, from drinking soiled water perhaps? He was such a fool.

"You shouldn't be staying out there alone," Khalila had said and Tariq, her husband, had only shaken his head in displeasure. "You're not used to this kind of life."

They were probably right, but he didn't want to go back. Not yet. There was nothing in his old life that was worth returning to, it seemed. Here, he had found some kind of comfort in the never-changing rhythm of days and nights. In a way, it was consoling that sun and moon and stars were constantly in motion and that nothing ever stopped them. At other times, it made him furious. How could it be, that some things never changed while his own life broke rapidly apart.

Then, one evening, the boy turned up.

Outside, it was already dark. It still amazed him how quickly the darkness came in these parts. There was almost no dusk, the sun set and instantly the sky was pitch-black.

He had heard a dog barking in the distance and suddenly, as if he had materialized out of nowhere, a young man stood in his tent, dark curls and kohl-rimmed eyes, smiling.

Was this a kind of desert accident? He rubbed his eyes, blinking. "Who are you?" he said.

"Khalila sent me."

"Ah, Khalila," he groaned, closing the laptop with a soft thud. "Next time you see her, tell her I don't need a babysitter."

The youth looked around the tent at the mess of papers and piles of books accumulated around the make-shift desk. He cocked his head, mischief and merriment dancing in his eyes. "Yeah, that's evident."

What was there to look at? With a look like that? the man thought, slightly irritated. A grumpy, grizzled hack desert hermit, so what? He didn't need company. He didn't want company. The only company he'd really welcome would be that of the black word ants that kept disappearing so stubbornly. He took a deep breath. "So?"

The young man seemed unfazed; he put down his backpack and produced several bags and parcels from its depths. "Khalila sends you food. Now, what do we have here? Ah, there's couscous and bastila, there are figs …"

Stretching himself and massaging his stiff neck, the man stood up. "Look, I don't need …"

The boy grinned. "Sure, you think you don't have to eat. But your guts think differently."

Automatically, the man pressed a hand to his growling stomach - now this was really embarrassing – but then he chuckled, shaking his head at himself, at the whole situation. "I'm sorry. Normally, I´m not like this, but I wanted to finish something and found I couldn't. And the next second, I find you standing here. I wasn´t expecting that."

The youth waved his hand generously. "You're forgiven. Listen, I'm hungry, too. You don't happen to have some plates, do you? And a few glasses?"

"Sure. What brings you here? Are you Khalila's new helper?"

The young man laughed. "Actually, I came to see her brother."

"Khalila has a brother?"

"Yeah, he's the one they don't talk about. He's a dancer. I met him back in London and he invited me to come by when I was in Morocco. Should have emailed him in advance to make sure he's actually here." He shrugged his shoulders. "My middle name's spontaneous."

"And your first name?"

"Orlando. I'm a kind of travelling artist."

Bowing a little, the man pointed to the cushions on the floor. "So, welcome to my humble desert outpost, Orlando. I'm Viggo."

"Actually, I'm an actor," the young man said, while something like insecurity flashed up for a second. His hands slid down the sides of his collarless, tunic-like white shirt as if he wanted to wipe something off. "Graduated from Guildhall some three years ago. I've been around a lot since then. Seen places. Travelled from one audition to the next. One time I almost landed a big part. D´you know the Lord of the Rings trilogy?"

Viggo nodded. "Tolkien, right? My son's a big fan, or was, when he was younger."

"I auditioned for a character called Faramir, but they didn't take me. Guess I was too young for the part. Too inexperienced." He bit his lip. "But I'm not interested in making films, anyway. I did some theatre instead, that's what I was trained for. Minor parts, but you've got to start somewhere, don't you?"

"Certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Perhaps it was for your own good that they didn't take you. Those Rings films were quite a flop, or so I heard. The effects must have been spectacular, but the casting wasn´t right somehow. At least, that's what my son says. He always pictured his favourite characters differently. He could rant on end about that Stuart Townsend guy."

Orlando chuckled. "Smart kid you have. I pictured Aragorn differently, too. More like … well, I don't know …" He looked up to the tent's ceiling where several oil lamps dangled and then back to Viggo. He took a deep breath. "So, what you are doing here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Good question. That's what I keep asking myself. My publisher expects a new book from me, but so far it doesn't look like it's going to happen. You can't produce poetry at the push of a button. Either it's there and decides to come out or it doesn't. You can't push it."

"So you're a kind of writer, poet? That's like … whoa … brilliant. May I have a look at your writing?"

"Umm, maybe later …" Viggo pointed to the treats the other man had spread out on the low makeshift table, which consisted of one of Viggo's old leather suitcases. "Perhaps we should try Khalila's couscous first."

As soon as they started eating, Viggo realized how hungry he'd been. Orlando even produced a bottle of wine from his seemingly never-empty backpack. Feasting on Khalila's delicious food, they talked. And talked. And talked some more.

"Actually, I always wanted to start my own publishing house. Be independent from editors and publishers who keep telling me what they think people want to read." Viggo cracked a little smile. "I'd rather to publish the books I want to read."

Orlando licked some rice from his fingers.

Long, graceful fingers, Viggo thought. Strong hands. "Huh?"

"I said, why didn´t you do it?"

"Well, it's not that easy. Besides, you need some money …"

"Yeah, that damned money." Orlando took another long sip from his glass. "But it's not always about money. It's about doing your own thing."

"Hey, you sound just like my friend Carlos. One night when I was in Havana, preparing my exhibition ..."

"Exhibition? But I thought you were a writer."

"Well, I do a bit of photography, too. Except I call it taking snapshots …"

"Must be some very special snapshots if you get to exhibit them."

"Well, anyway, we were in this place called …hey, what's that?" Viggo almost dropped his glass as a black whirlwind rushed past him.

Orlando jumped up, clapping a hand on his thigh. "Sorry. Come here, sit, Sidi, sit. Where are your manners? Now come here and be a good boy." Laughing, he caught the black dog that came jumping at him. "I wondered where you'd gone, you little rascal. Now behave yourself or this gentleman here won't let you stay."

Viggo grinned. "More unexpected company – you don't have a few more friends waiting outside, do you? Some dwarves, perhaps?"

Orlando looked at him quizzically.

"Never read The Hobbit? Viggo asked. "Ah, never mind."

Shaking his head, Orlando fed the dog some bits of the cold, grilled meat. "No, he's the only one. I just got him a week ago. Found him at the market in Quazazarte. He was eating camel shit out of a box, didn't seem to belong to anyone, so I decided to keep him. He needs a bit of educating, hmmmm, don't you, Sidi? But he's a great dog, isn't he?"

"I wonder who's educating whom," Viggo remarked with a small smile, watching the dog nudge Orlando every time he finished a bite. These two are quite a pair, Viggo thought. In the dim light, Orlando's hair seemed just as black as the dog's fur.

Finally, almost everything had been eaten and they lay contentedly on their cushions, the dog snoring happily in Orlando's lap.

"There are so many parts I want to play. I just hope I´ll get the chance. Shakespeare, Wilde, Dostoevsky, I'd love to do both drama and comedy." His eyes sparkled.

"What parts have you played?"

"Oh, well, this and that, nothing special. But I´ve played one major part. It was a very modern adaptation of Salome."

"I see, seven veils and one beheaded Baptist. Who were you?"

Orlando chuckled. "Well, you won't believe it. As I said, it was a very modern version …"

"No, you didn't …"

"Yes, I did." Orlando beamed. "Wait. The timing's perfect now, the court has just finished an opulent feast and is waiting to be entertained. Enter Salome."

"What?"

"Don´t look. Wait a sec. Hush, Sidi, get up, you can sleep outside."

Viggo laughed inwardly, letting his mind drift as he closed his eyes. He felt comfortable after the rich meal, relaxed, a tiny bit drunk, perhaps. From the opposite end of the tent came sounds of rustling and shuffling. And suddenly, there was music.

Viggo opened his eyes again. And immediately, his mouth fell open, too.

Orlando stood in the middle of the tent, still as a bronze statue under the flickering oil lamps. He wore only a pair of loose black pants now. His torso was gleaming as if he had been oiled. Probably a special stage trick, Viggo thought wondering how the youth had managed to do this in such a short time. As the music picked up speed, Orlando gracefully unfolded his arms, his hands drawing intricate patterns in the air.

Viggo had seen women belly-dance before, at the local kasbahs or at private affairs. He had admired their proud stance and their sense of rhythm. Generally, however, heaving bosoms and undulating hips failed to impress him. It had all seemed so obvious. So clichéd.

This, however … this was different. Viggo couldn´t keep his eyes off the slender, muscular body moving with snakelike elegance. He recognized some of the movements and steps, but when performed by a man, they seemed downright sinful.

He´s good at this, damned good, Viggo had to admit, reaching for his wine. Raising the glass to his lips he found that he had already emptied it. He swallowed hard. The way the boy swayed his body and rolled his hips, perfectly in tune with the music, was sheer provocation.

You old fool, Viggo told himself. He´s only repeating a routine he´s has perfected for his role. And yet … Viggo couldn´t deny that he was fascinated. Even the Arabian music with its foreign scales suddenly made sense to him, adding to the spell this unexpected guest was weaving around him, slowly but surely wrapping him in a net of glances and gestures, each of them full of unspoken promises.

If he had been a bit sleepy after the meal, Viggo was wide awake now.

He watched.

He stared.

At the young man´s arms and shoulders, at the dark nipples, at the sun tattoo sitting low on the firm yet supple belly. How would the gleaming skin feel under his fingers? His hands ached to touch the prominent hipbones, to keep the boy still and hold him in place.

Orlando smiled, a small, wicked smile, as if he could read his mind. The longer the dance lasted, the closer to Viggo he moved, almost touching him, almost allowing to be touched himself. His eyes never left Viggo´s.

Finally, the piece ended, and Viggo found himself with "Salome" more or less draped over him. There was a thin sheen of sweat on the boy´s upper lip. He was a little breathless from the dance.

"Well?" Orlando prompted. He took a deep breath, his voice was low and seductive, and surprisingly steady.

Viggo´s eyes wandered to Orlando´s lips again. He hesitated. "What're you trying to do?" he asked.

Orlando smiled. "I thought that was obvious. Salome trying to seduce - pardon me - persuade Herod."

"Where were the veils?"

"Didn´t you see them? How they were gliding through the air?"

With one hand, Orlando made a graceful movement as if he were drawing a cloth over his head and back again. With the other hand he was still supporting himself. For a moment, his upper body touched Viggo´s.

Viggo cleared his throat. "You´re quite convincing," he replied, mainly to say anything. Why was it so difficult to articulate even the simplest thought? Suddenly, his mind seemed completely blank. "But I´m afraid I can´t promise you a Baptist´s head".

"Never mind. I´m not interested in that. What would I do with such a trophy? There´s .." he looked down at Viggo´s body, and Viggo immediately felt his skin heat up under that glance. "There´s nothing else you can offer me?"


End file.
